The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [71]
“Come on, Maya. Come on now.” Her urgency would not be denied. I looked at the angry man and lied. “I'll be right back.”
Inside the gleaming hall, unarmed security guards stood anxiously at their posts. Near the wide stairs leading to the second floor, Carlos was hemmed in by another group of guards.
“I've got my ticket. This is mine.” Frayed stubs protruded from his black fist. “They were given to me by a delegate.”
Rosa and I pushed into the circle, forcing the guards away. Rosa took his arm. “Come on, Carlos, we've got to go.”
We walked together straight and moderately slowly, controlling the desire to break and run, keening, into the General Assembly.
Although we were beyond the guards' hearing, Carlos whispered, “The Assembly has started. Stevenson is going to speak soon.”
Upstairs, more guards stood silent as we passed. Two black men were waiting by the entry to the hall, anxiety flushing their faces.
“Carlos! We thought they had you, man.”
“They'll never have me, mon. I am Carlos, mon.”
His assurance had returned. Rosa smiled at me and we entered the dark, quiet auditorium. Miles away, down a steep incline, delegates sat before microphones in a square of light, but the upper balcony was too dim for me to distinguish anything clearly.
After a few seconds, the gloom gave way, and the audience became visible. About seventy-five black people were mixed among the whites. Some women had already pinned veils over their faces.
Amece, Jean and the teacher sat together. Max and Abbey were across the aisle near Sarah and the model. An accented voice droned unintelligibly.
“Uh, uhm, mm, um.”
The little white man so far away leaned toward his microphone, his bald forehead shining-white. Dark-rimmed glasses stood out on the well-known face.
A scream shattered his first word. The sound was bloody and broad and piercing. In a second other voices joined it.
“Murderers.”
“Lumumba. Lumumba.”
“Killers.”
“Bigoted sons of bitches.”
The scream still rode high over the heads of astounded people who were rising, clutching each other or pushing out toward the aisle.
The houselights came on. Stevenson took off his glasses and looked to the balcony. The shock opened his mouth and made his chin drop.
A man near me screamed, “You Ku Klux Klan motherfuckers.”
Another yelled, “Murderers.”
African diplomats were as alarmed as their white counterparts. I was also shaken. We had not anticipated a riot. We had been expected to stand, veiled and mournful, in a dramatic but silent protest.
“Baby killers.”
“Slave drivers.”
Terrorized whites in the audience tried to hustle away from the yelling blacks. Security guards rushed through the doors on the upper and lower levels.
The garish lights, the stampede of bodies and the continuing high-pitched scream were overpowering. My knees weakened and I sat down in the nearest seat.
A woman in the aisle beside me screamed at the guards, “Don't dare touch me. Don't put your hands on me, you white bastard!”
The guards were shouting, “Get out. Get out.”
The woman said, “Don't touch me, you Belgian bastard.”
Below, the diplomats rose and formed an orderly file toward an exit.
When the piercing scream stopped I heard my own voice shouting, “Murderers. Killers. Assassins.”
Two women grappled with a guard in the aisle. Carlos had leaped onto a white man's back and was riding him to the floor. A stout black woman held the lapels of a white man in civilian clothes.
“Who you trying to kill? Who you trying to kill? You don't know me, you dog. You don't know who you messing with.”
The man was hypnotized and beyond fear, and the woman shook him like a dishrag.
The diplomats had vanished and except for the guards the whites had disappeared. The balcony was ours. Just as in the Southern segregated movie houses, we were in the buzzards' roost again.
Rosa found me and I got up and followed her. We urged the people back to the safety of the street. The black folks strode proudly past the guards, through the hall and out the doors